


Deliberation

by satellitescales



Series: the Ephraim lore dump [1]
Category: Red Rising Series - Pierce Brown
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dating, Engagement, Kissing, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Missing Scene, Trauma, nobody dies don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28377540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satellitescales/pseuds/satellitescales
Summary: This was supposed to be a mistake, and one day Trigg would see Ephraim for who he is and leave. But days have turned into weeks and weeks into months, and Trigg stays around. The fact that he’s here, pouring all this strange love and attention into Ephraim has to mean this is more than some well-intentioned accident. What the two of them have together happened on purpose, somehow.-It was happenstance that Trigg and Ephraim met, but everything after that was intentional, deliberate.Exploring Trigg and Ephraim's relationship pre-Iron Gold.
Relationships: Ephraim ti Horn/Trigg ti Nakamura
Series: the Ephraim lore dump [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2078382
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Deliberation

**Author's Note:**

> ephraim can have a little happiness. as a treat :)

This world is a hungry beast, chewing up and spitting out every sad bastard to be born in it. It gnaws through two things the fastest: Reds and Grays. Both are manufactured to be disposable, both are worked to death, and both are valued so little by the Society they dedicate their short, miserable lives to. It is in spite of this melancholic reality that both learn to find comfort in the little things.

For Reds, it’s whatever slips through the cracks. A bribe to get spices or candy, stealing boots or watches or food from more favored clans like Gamma, or stumbling upon a bubbleGarden with lackadaisical security. Tiny, inconsequential acts of rebellion that mean the most in the moment.

For Grays, little comforts come courtesy of the Board of Quality Control’s efforts to lower Gray suicide rates. It takes the form of slightly more comfortable bunks in the barracks, better booze, less clunky armor, and off-time in increasingly weirder, kitschy themed locations to “boost morale.” This one’s a bar. A bar Ephraim ti Horn does not care for.

He hasn’t been in the legions for a solid two years, but he can tell this place was made for exhausted legionnaires to kick back, relax, and distract themselves from the merry-go-round of whatever Gold spat they’ve all been shoved into. Kind of an odd choice for a non-legion night out, but whatever.

The bar itself is thrown together with the extravagant design choices of some overpaid Copper. The walls are papered over to look like bamboo and lit with false wood torches. Each table is fitted with a skirt of long, dried leaves. Shells of various shapes and sizes hang between Society legion recruitment posters and gaudy tin signs etched with slogans. The theme is (allegedly) Venusian beach regalia. It looks less like a novelty bar and more like the leftover decorum from a child’s birthday party.

Ephraim digs his nail through a crack in the countertop, trying to decide if it’s worth it to leave. Sure, he came here with his coworkers intending to kick back and enjoy some light conversation—get to know the Piraeus crowd a bit better. He’s done that already, it was fine—fine in the way awkward conversation with the people one works with always is. But barely an hour ago, what looks like two whole platoons got dumped on the doorstep. The walls can barely support all the yelling, laughing, and drunken singing. The grinding of noise sapped all of Ephraim’s energy and now he just slumps against the bar. He checked out of the general conversation a while ago, but if he leaves, he’ll be The Guy Who Left Early. Not the first impression he wants to make with this new job.

Giving himself a headache weighing his options while breathing air clouded with burners and sweat, Ephraim wonders why he even bothered with this place at all. As he’s doing this, someone bumps against his stool. Next thing he knows there’s a slick cold running down his back. _For fuck’s sake_. As if he wasn’t already having a bad night. Now some moron’s spilled their drink down his neck. He pushes off the stool. Turning with his fist already up, ready to give this jerk a piece of his mind.

Ephraim finds himself face to face with a stock-still legionnaire. In his hand is a conspicuously half-empty mug of . . . is that _milk_? It has to be, given the absurd white stain on his top lip.

To his own surprise, Ephraim starts laughing. Maybe it’s the stupid milk mustache, maybe it’s the nerves—who knows? The other Gray starts laughing as well, though nervously at first. Once the laughter dies out and they’re both staring at each other again, Ephraim shrugs and kicks out the barstool next to him. His unlikely companion wipes his face and takes the seat as Ephraim shrugs off his jacket.

“Sorry,” He says with a wince. “I’m Trigg. Can I . . . buy you a drink to make up for it?”

Trigg is the cutest killer Ephraim’s ever met. Given his clipped accent and the natural rich dark of his skin, he could be Lunese. Maybe from Earth. Tattooed beneath one of his wide, curious eyes is a gold teardrop. That and the sea dragon inked on his neck and badge on his suit spells out _dangerous_ to the tune of the Thirteenth Dracones. The Ash Lord’s own. Trigg musses his charcoal hair absently, a few coils springing back in front of his eyes. He’s taller than Ephraim, more muscular, with the thick arms and broad chest of any elite Society killer, but that _face_. He has the face of someone who still gives a shit about the world.

Peripherally, Ephraim is aware he shouldn’t accept this lousy apology, but . . . honestly, his forgiveness _can_ be bought. “That would more than make up for it. Name’s Ephraim,” He replies. Trigg orders their drinks and Ephraim settles into whatever this night has turned into.

When Trigg gets their drinks, he passes Ephraim his. It isn’t more of whatever that spiked milk thing was, which meets Ephraim’s standards for drink. “How long have you been with the Thirteenth?” Ephraim asks, because he’s lame and can’t think of a better opener.

“Long enough to miss home,” Trigg says wistfully.

“Yeah? Where’s that?”

“Small town in South Pacifica—Goodhope. I grew up out in the countryside on a farm, it was nice. Honestly, I was fine staying and getting a job locally after my twenty years. It was my sister’s idea to stay with the legions.”

“It was that great, huh?”

“I mean . . . I like seeing the Solar System. Now that I’m out here I get the appeal of traveling and seeing everything.” He picks at his sigils. “But I miss the simplicity of Goodhope. Our whole world was contained to a little plot of land—fields of corn on one side, beach on the other—it was simple, but it was . . . _good_ simple. If that makes any sense.”

“No, no, I get that. I couldn’t stand the legions. Finally got out two years ago only to end up right where I was before.”

“You grew up on Luna?”

“Born in Hyperion.”

Trigg takes a sip of his drink. “What do you do now? Since you’re out of the legions.” The way he asks is not at all like formulaic small talk. It feels more natural, as if he’s genuinely interested, which is enough to get Ephraim talking.

Ephraim tells Trigg about his new job at the insurance agency, ignoring the people he came here with and eventually ignoring everyone else in the bar. His world hones in until it’s just him and Trigg. They talk all through the night. Time well spent, Ephraim finds. He learns that Trigg wakes up earlier than everyone else—no matter where he is—to see the sunrise. The sunrise is different on every planet, every moon, every asteroid in the Belt, and he wants to see all of them. He has a sister, Holiday, who’s fond of dogs and looking like she isn’t. She and Trigg communicate via dog pictures online when they’re separated and can’t talk. Occasionally Ephraim will offer some piece of his life, but most of the evening he just listens to this guy talk. Trigg isn’t particularly eloquent, and most of the time he’s rambling or going off on a tangent of a tangent, but Ephraim doesn’t mind in the slightest. Trigg is charming and empathetic. That’s hard to find in the legions. Hell, it’s hard to find in Grays. Ephraim thought those traits were surgically removed by the Board long ago.

For the first time, Ephraim is the last to leave the bar. He and Trigg talked until it closed. Though it was mostly Trigg talking with Ephraim quietly captivated by every word. Outside, in the chill, in the dark (though it isn’t ever truly _dark_ on Luna) it becomes apparent just how long they sat talking. Ephraim hopes with a sudden pang of self-consciousness that Trigg doesn’t think it was time wasted. This was the first time in a while Ephraim’s felt truly at ease in conversation with another person. But that’s all it was, conversation for a few hours. This’ll probably end with a curt goodbye and they will never see each other again.

Instead of a curt goodbye, Trigg does the one thing Ephraim was not expecting. He says, “It was nice talking to you.”

_That’s a first._ “Huh?”

“You’re a good listener.” He shrugs. “I haven’t had a conversation like this in a while. It was . . . refreshing.”

Ephraim finds himself wondering just how many drinks Trigg had because surely, _surely_ this is not happening, and if it is, it has to be some kind of mistake.

But the mistake keeps going.

“I’ll be here for a month or so until Ol’ Magnus wants us back,” He smiles at some private joke, “but before then I think I’d like to talk with you some more.”

It keeps going until it’s apparent this is _not_ a mistake.

“I’d like that,” Ephraim hears himself say, mind reeling.

“Yeah?” Trigg grins and it’s like nothing Ephraim has ever seen before. This person wants to talk with him _again_ , on purpose. Because he _wants to_.

They exchange contact information and set up another place and time to meet. Ephraim keeps his cool, but internally struggles to keep up. The whole time he wants to ask Trigg if he’s sure. Because Ephraim has never kept a long-term partner. Because everyone in his life finds a way to leave. Because whatever companionship Trigg is offering seems too whole and pure for someone like _Ephraim_. Soon enough he’ll see all of Ephraim’s flaws and he’ll be disgusted. Then, before leaving, Trigg offers another lopsided smile and squeezes Ephraim’s shoulder, dashing any coherent thought.

“See you soon,” He says with a parting wave.

Ephraim finds his voice and sputters out a half-baked response. He stands alone outside the bar, sky lit with the promise of oncoming sun, still half-convinced whatever glorious thing just happened was a strange dream.

* * *

Ephraim has to ask himself several times if this is even real. Things like this don’t happen to people like him. _People_ like this don’t happen to people like him.

Trigg doesn’t seem to notice his inner turmoil, or he doesn’t mind. This is another odd, new thing. That someone could be fine with Ephraim and his presence and his thoughts. He isn’t used to being anything more than a nuisance or a number on a spreadsheet, a designation in the hull of a moonBreaker. But now he’s here and Trigg is _okay_ with it. More than that, he _wants_ to be here with Ephraim.

They’re alone, the two of them, hiking up the incline of a green hill dotted with wildflowers. A miracle in and of itself on the overdeveloped, hyper-populated Luna. It was Trigg’s idea.

The trek to the top is done in relative silence, broken only by small talk about inconsequential things. Trigg stops on the top of the hill, overlooking winding valleys pitted with farmland and wide groves of produce. Nothing special. But Trigg eats up the sight of it all. He inhales deeply through his nose, appreciating the bleak scenery with a fervor Ephraim couldn’t match if he tried. Trigg looks at peace up here, breeze stirring his hair, sun lighting up his face. He stands with an energy and life Violets would kill to capture in sculpture.

“What do you think?”

“What do I think?” Ephraim repeats dumbly. _About you or—_ Trigg gestures to the open farmland below. “Oh, it’s . . . green.”

Trigg’s laugh is like ice tinkling in a glass, or lips brushing bruised knuckles, or moonlight through an open window. It’s simple and melodious and makes Ephraim’s mind blank.

“It is very green,” Trigg agrees, melted gray eyes shining in the afternoon light. “It’s a lot more, too. There’s yellow and orange, and when the sun hits the dirt there it looks almost red . . .” He trails off, shrugs. “I love this. I can’t describe it, but whatever _this_ is, it’s beautiful.”

It’s really not. Not to Ephraim, at least. But the way Trigg is drinking in the view, eyes wide open, lips slightly parted, posture open and calm—he’s _marveling_ at this plot of machine-tilled, corporate-owned farmland. Trigg deserves better than this, Ephraim realizes. He also realizes that he would drop everything to take Trigg wherever he wanted to go, to whatever he wanted to see. If just to be there to see the look on his face, the way it all lights up.

Trigg extends his hand. “There’s more I want to show you, come on.” He says it with such radiant excitement Ephraim doesn’t know how he’d refuse if he wanted to. His excitement and passion are so fresh and new it’s a wonder within itself. Trigg sees horrors upon horrors in the dragoons, being worked to the bone every mission because the Ash Lord can only afford the best. Yet he still has it in him to appreciate hills and get excited over pretty views. He never lets himself get consumed by the life manufactured for him. He’s strong and brave and multi-faceted and he does it all while being _nice to people_. How he and Ephraim exist in the same world is baffling, and how Trigg can stand him enough to take him on what has now been _four_ dates is a downright mystery. That doesn’t mean that Ephraim won’t enjoy every absurd second of it.

He takes Trigg’s hand.

* * *

They’re sitting together in Ephraim’s apartment, the day before Trigg has to go back to the Thirteenth, when Trigg says, “I’m tired of the Ash Lord.”

Ephraim blinks, sitting on the other side of the couch. He certainly is as well—that old sack of bones and war crimes has been alive far too long—but Trigg has never said anything about him. It’s gotten to the point where they barely talk about the Thirteenth unless it’s to schedule when they’ll next see each other. Ephraim says, “Isn’t he passing the Thirteenth down to one of the Furies?”

“Aja,” Trigg confirms. “But it’s not just him. Her, too. All of them. Golds. This whole—” He tosses his hands, struggling to find the words. “Color, all of it—the Society, the legions, the wars, this whole . . . There was one point I thought it brought order, but now it feels exploitative.”

“It’s a pyramid. Someone's always getting exploited.”

His lip curls. Disgust? “You say that like it’s a fact of life.”

Ephraim doesn’t know to respond to that in a way Trigg will like, so he just says, “You could always leave.” _He_ wants Trigg to leave the Thirteenth, he’s just never had the chance to bring it up. It always felt like the wrong time.

“Not now,” Trigg says, a sad half-smile taking up his face. “There are still things I have to do.” _Whatever that means._

Ephraim doesn’t say that he can do ‘things’ outside of the legions. He doesn’t say that staying in the dragoons is a death sentence with how fast they go through Grays. He doesn’t say that if Trigg wanted to leave the legions, Ephraim would help him every step of the way. He doesn’t say any of it because he’s scared of losing this strange peace they’ve accrued. One wrong word and this veneer of happiness over his life crumbles.

Instead, Ephraim says, “Sure, I get that,” not meaning a word of it. “Do you want to order in tonight?”

* * *

He said he’d be back in a day. That was a week ago. Technically a week and two days, but who’s counting?

Ephraim is.

He’s absorbed in his datapad, scrolling through news article after news article. He knows well that the legions often get hung up and have to stay longer than anticipated. But Trigg would have told him, messaged him, or something. Right? They’re at that point now, where that feels normal. Which is why it’s terrifying that he hasn’t heard from Trigg in a week, two days, and seven hours.

He’s trying not to let the anxiety get the better of him, but who is he kidding? Ephraim has seen what goes down on the front lines. He knows what kind of a twisted motherfucker the Ash Lord is. That man goes through Grays faster than the Thessalonica brothels go through Pinks. That, or he wised up and left Ephraim.

It makes sense. It is, objectively, the more reasonable option of the two. Trigg is capable and he’s lasted this long, so he can’t be dead. He’s also smart and funny and charming and far, far, _far_ out of Ephriam’s league, so it makes sense that, eventually, he would grow tired of this relationship. Ephraim wonders what it was. What he did that finally convinced Trigg to find someone better—

A knock at the door rips him from his thoughts. He jumps up to answer it, both relieved and heart-crushingly tense. On the other side of the door is Trigg (who is alive!), sporting an apologetic smile and a second gold teardrop tattoo. He stumbles into Ephraim’s apartment, explaining the hold-up. He’s a bit scraped up and he looks exhausted, but he’s _here_ and he’s here in one piece, which is all that matters. Trigg pauses, peering over Ephraim’s abandoned datapad.

“You were worried about me,” Trigg realizes, a smug smile crawling up his face.

_I was also thinking about all the reasons I don’t deserve you._ Ephraim crosses his arms as if he can keep his intrusive thoughts to himself by sheer physical force. He says, “A bit, yeah. Why?”

“Nothing.” Still grinning.

“What?” Ephraim asks a bit more forcefully. It is clearly not ‘nothing.’ Trigg shrugs, looking painfully innocent. “ _What_? Come on, what is it?”

“Nothing,” Trigg insists, swooping in to catch Ephraim in a hug. “It’s just . . . you were thinking of me. That’s sweet.”

“ _Sweet_ ,” Ephraim snorts. “Not a word usually associated with me, but sure.”

“I think you are very sweet. You just don’t get told it enough.”

“Probably a reason for that.”

Trigg pulls away, frowning. Guilt sinks into Ephraim. He made it weird by talking too much—how many times has _that_ happened?

“Look at me,” Trigg says. “You are a kind person, you’re sweet. Don’t laugh, I’m serious. Whoever taught you otherwise is wrong and doesn’t know a thing about you. I, for one, think you’re wonderful, you . . . Are you okay?”

Ephraim doesn’t trust his voice so he just nods, keeping his eyes on that same spot on Trigg’s shirt collar. Eye contact seems like a horrible idea right now.

“Did I do something? I’m sorry—did I say something wrong?”

“No, it’s . . .” Ephraim croaks. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s fine, just that no one’s—” Deep breath. In. Out. “No one’s ever said anything like that to me.”

“Oh, Eph,” Trigg says quietly, pulling him in for another hug. That does it.

Within seconds Ephraim is sputtering and crying into Trigg’s shoulder. Who gave him the right to be so nice all the time? Where does he get that? How does he look this shitty world in the eye and decide not to let it corrupt him like it does everyone else? He’s so patient and understanding and unlike anyone Ephraim has ever known. This was supposed to be a mistake, and one day Trigg would see Ephraim for who he is and leave. But days have turned into weeks and weeks into months, and Trigg stays around. The fact that he’s here, pouring all this strange love and attention into Ephraim has to mean this is more than some well-intentioned accident. What the two of them have together happened on purpose, somehow.

* * *

Holiday ti Nakumura is a woman of hidden talents. Firstly, she ascended the ranks of the legions faster than anyone else in recent history. And she came from Fuckoff Nowhere, South Pacifica, of an unknown house. Now she’s in the gorydamn _Thirteenth,_ rivaling the likes of Rhone ti Flavinius.

Secondly, she can ice skate like it’s the one thing she was born to do. She tears up the rink while Ephraim—whose bright idea it was to come here in the first place—hangs on the wall. Trigg is as bad as he warned Ephraim he would be, which is fine. And hilarious.

Trigg lands flat on his ass again, legs splayed out, knees covered in half-melted ice. He groans. “If this happens one more time my ankle is going to break.”

Holiday carves circles in the ice around him. She sticks her tongue out. He gives her the finger.

“You seriously won’t help me up.”

“This is the fifth time this has happened. I can’t keep scraping you off the ice, kiddo.” She turns suddenly. “Why don’t you get Ephraim to help you out?”

Fingers numb from the cold, still gripping the wall, Ephrain shakes his head. “I am _not_ going out there.”

Holiday chuckles, “You haven’t left the wall once.”

“And there’s a _reason_ for that. My sense of balance isn’t worth shit. If I move, I will fall and do far worse than break my ankle.” His legs are wobbling at the mere thought of trying to get out there with nothing to balance himself with. 

“You two are disasters,” Holiday grins. She offers a two-finger salute. “Have fun,” and skates away.

“You won’t help me—” Trigg gives up and sighs.

A group of Yellow children skate past without a care in the world. Ephraim glares at them and their stupidly perfect balance. Off on the other side of the rink, Holiday does a double axel, receiving cheers from a Green wearing an impossibly long scarf. Holiday winks at her.

“I like your sister.”

“Well I don’t,” Trigg pauses, “not now at least. When I get out of these skates I’m never doing this again. No offense.”

“None taken, I’m with you on that . . . Wait, are you getting up on your own?”

Trigg fumbles on the ice. “Trying to.”

“Wait. Here, let me help.” Ephraim pushes off the wall.

“Are you sure?”

“Am I sure?” Ephraim laughs, attempting to sound confident. The ice is actually a lot more forgiving now that he’s moving. There’s a sort of rhythm to it. He glides over to Trigg with ease. This is not as bad as he thought it was. “Of course I’m sure—” His skate catches. He trips, hitting his tailbone on the ice. Trigg bursts out laughing. Holiday, shredding the rink with militaristic precision, waves and flashes a winning smile.

* * *

Of all the things to come of this relationship—which is apparently what it is now—the one that stands out the most is sleep. It is difficult to sleep without Trigg. Granted, this isn’t much of a change since Ephraim hasn’t ever been able to get good sleep, but it is a noticeable difference. He’ll go through his day perfectly fine, but the moment he has to lie down in an empty bed all he can think is that Trigg is _not here_.

Nights alone are restless and exhaustive. He knows he should be over this by now but it keeps happening. Not all the time, but enough to be a bother. The tossing and turning, the _wondering_. The “ _where is he now?”_ and the “ _is he okay?”_ keeps Ephraim up until dawn.

Peace is a privilege no one can afford, not now at least. For a while Ephraim was—well, not content with that fact, but he lived with it. Now things are different. They’re different because he knows what he’s missing.

He could be living. He could be getting lost in the midColor section of a botanical garden, among the quiet and the smell of fruit and flowers as Trigg trails ahead, enamored with the beauty of it all. He could be stone-cold sober on the patio of some bar, listening to Trigg tell stories of his life, memories made all the more real by his full-bodied smiles and the way he talks with his hands. He could be out on the roof of his apartment building, watching the sunset bathe Trigg’s face in orange. He could be buying overpriced street food, arguing over the _real_ meaning of the end of that one holoflick, waking up with Trigg’s heart beating against his. Instead, he’s here, in his empty little apartment, eating, (sometimes) sleeping, and going to work.

What’s so frustrating and beautiful and messed up is that it was such a minor change, such a tiny little thing that caused all this—the happenstance of this random man entering Ephraim’s life. Now it’s all so much worse and so much better. Before, he wasn’t lonely, because lonely was the status quo. Lonely was every single day and every night. Now, Ephraim knows what it’s like to be with someone who cares, someone who will humor him, someone who will dance drunk with him in the kitchen, someone he can talk to until they both fall asleep, someone to merely _exist_ happily in the same space with him. With this also comes the heartache of his absence, which is a different, more visceral kind of loneliness.

* * *

The bathroom of Ephraim’s apartment is cramped, dark, and has incredibly painful countertops. Not something you’d typically notice, but _wow_ , _what are these things made of?_ Ephraim has been sitting on the counter by the sink for less than five minutes and it’s already uncomfortable. Granted, that could just be the bruising.

“Look up,” Trigg says, balling up a wad of tissues in one hand.

“I’m fine.”

“It’ll stop the bleeding if you look up for a moment.” When Ephraim still refuses to move, Trigg adds, “Please?”

_Please?_ With that face? Ephraim doesn’t stand a chance. “Fine,” he huffs and tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling. Now the blood runs down the back of his throat. Lovely. Trigg dabs at Ephriam’s mouth and nose with the tissues. It hurts, but it certainly hurts less than it did half an hour ago.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Ephraim scoffs, “He was trying to fight.”

“ _You_ were trying to fight _him._ ”

“He was being a dick.”

“You ended up with a broken nose, bruises, and got us kicked out of the bar.” Trigg pauses to throw the bloodied tissue away and collect a new wad. “Was it worth it?”

Ephraim doesn’t reply. Trigg sighs and continues wiping the blood from under Ephraim’s nose. It’s a simple, tender gesture, and distracts Ephraim from the cramping in his neck and the pain in his . . . everywhere. It is a nice change from getting the shit beaten out of him by a pissed off Bronzie, but most things are. Still, there’s something else in this silence. Something lingering in Trigg’s exasperated, _“Was it worth it?”_

“The bleeding should have stopped by now, you can move your head back.”

With a sigh, Ephraim rolls out the kinks in his neck, appreciating the fact that his nose doesn’t immediately start bleeding again. Trigg is frowning down at the trash can full of bloodied tissues, eyebrows pinched together.

“Are you okay?” Ephriam asks, feeling guilty for not asking that in the first place. Internally, he kicks himself. _Keep up, Horn._

Trigg glares at him a moment before his shoulders slump and he leans back against the wall, touching the edge of the bathmat with his shoe. “I wish you’d act like this outside, in the world.”

“Act like what?”

“Just . . . “ He starts messing with his sigils. “The way you are around me and Holi. You’re always on edge when we go out. It’s like you put up this—this front, like you don’t want to be seen as someone with emotions, it gets you into situations like these. You’re always . . .” He trails off, not meeting Ephraim’s gaze.

“What?” Ephraim leans forward.

The way Trigg works his jaw trying to form the words tells Ephraim how hard this is for him. Finally, he says, “You’re always trying not to be yourself. I like to think I know you, Eph, but you’re a different person out in the world. Here, you’re relaxed and compassionate. You don’t overthink things. You let yourself _feel_ things, and I love that about you. When we’re out in public you . . . you hate people like that. I don’t get it.”

Ephraim slides off the sink. There isn’t a lot of space in the bathroom so they’re close enough Ephraim can reach out for Trigg’s hands. Trigg wrenches them away.

To the floor, Trigg says, “Whatever reason you have for doing this, I don’t care. It’s your reason and you don’t have to tell me, but you don’t always have to be the toughest person in the room. You don’t have to impress everyone.”

“I know,” Ephraim says, meaning it. Still, there’s something ingrained deep in his personality, some pathetic defense mechanism he keeps holding on to for fear of who he will be without it. But that fear matters far less than Trigg. That fear pales in comparison to the swell of affection Ephraim feels whenever he sees Trigg, the way they can talk all night and never tire, the fact that Trigg knows how to pull Ephraim apart—just like this. At that moment a cold clarity washes thorough Ephraim and he says, for the first time in his life, “I will be better.”

* * *

Ephraim wakes up one morning to a warm empty bed and sunlight streaming in through the blinds. Half-conscious, he stumbles into the kitchenette, slowly shedding sleep like cobwebs. Trigg hasn’t had the time to get his own place while also being in the Thirteenth, and now, instead of crashing on Holiday’s couch, he stays with Ephraim. It started what feels like ages ago and now is just . . . normal.

Trigg stands at the counter, making coffee with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, muttering to himself. He turns and his face lights up.

In those few seconds, Ephraim sees a future. Thousands of mornings just like this one. Late nights and endless conversation and folding laundry and cooking and _living—_ and doing it all with Trigg. It is forever in brief snapshots of domesticity and it feels tangible. It feels within reach—something Ephraim wouldn’t have even considered for himself a year ago.

“Morning,” Trigg chirps with an easy smile, “your apartment is freezing. I think the thermostat might be broken.”

Ephraim waves it off. He comes around Trigg’s side and tilts his chin down for a kiss. Trigg makes a small noise of pleasant surprise, one hand absently drifting to hold Ephriam’s waist, the other keeping the blanket cinched around his shoulders. Ephraim drinks in the sweet, familiar smell of him. When they part he says the one thing that’s been rattling around in his head for months.

“I love you.”

Trigg’s eyes go wide. “I—gorydamnit.” He laughs. “I had this whole thing planned out where I was gonna take you out to a nice place for dinner, we’d talk and watch the stars, and I’d tell you right there that I love you. You ruined my plan.”

“Not sorry.” He kisses Trigg again. “But we could still arrange that date . . .”

* * *

It happened randomly. Last night was fine, the day before was fine, but Trigg woke up this morning . . . different. He was quieted and sluggish all day, picking at his sigils, staring off into nothing. His movements are mechanical, voice a muted drone. He gets like this from time to time, but everyone does, and it’s always an easy fix. When Ephraim gets back from Piraeus and Trigg is still out of it, he knows he has to do something.

He sets his bag down. “Alright, what’s wrong?”

“I . . .” Trigg trails off, leaning against the wall. He keeps glancing down at his hands as if seeing them for the first time. “I’m okay. I just need to sit down.”

He’s lying, but Ephraim doesn’t say anything. This situation is already so absurd as it is. He guides Trigg to the bedroom, trying to comfort him. Trigg stays quiet, sitting down on the edge of their bed. Ephraim feels like an intruder in someone else’s life without Trigg’s glowing smile and laughing eyes. Trigg stares at his palms, swaying slightly, as if he’s in a different world. The room is silent but for Trigg’s slightly unsteady breathing 

Ephraim sits down next to him and tries to find the words for this. Comfort has never been his strong suit, and seeing Trigg so drawn into himself has Ephraim feeling lost and utterly confused. Ephraim grapples to find the words to make this all better—whatever _this_ is.

“I think . . .” Trigg clears his throat. “I think I’m going to go to sleep.”

Ephraim’s mouth is dry. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing. Stim crash.”

It is _not_ nothing and if he was going to have a stim crash, he’d have it three days ago, when he last took stims! Ephriam doesn’t know what to do, trapped in the current of a conversation quickly leaving him behind. He’s doing mental gymnastics trying to find the right thing to say as Trigg crawls up to his side of the bed and lies down. Ephraim stares at his back, lost.

He won’t be an asshole and wake Trigg up to demand they talk, but he will sit there and think himself in circles. If it was something that happened on his last mission, Ephraim would have heard about it before today. It has to be something else. Something _he_ did? Ephraim racks his brain for anything he said or did in the last few days that could have caused this, but comes up empty. Maybe that’s his problem—too dense to know when he’s messed up.

Night passes at an agonizingly slow pace. Ephraim couldn’t sleep if he wanted to. He sits and he wonders and at one point gets some paperwork done just to distract himself. It’s after he’s crawled back in bed when he hears the slight shift of Trigg’s breathing. The hitching of his shoulders. He is crying. It’s quiet. Little gasping sobs that tear Ephraim to pieces. 

Ephraim sits up and Trigg holds his breath in surprise. They linger like that in the quiet, heavy dark for a while before Trigg scrubs his face and brings himself up to sit with his hands in his lap. It’s dark, but they’re sitting close enough that Ephraim can see the pain on Trigg’s face. He doesn’t know what to say, what to think.

“Did I wake you up?” Trigg says, voice thick from crying.

_Why would that matter?_ Ephraim shakes his head no. “Will you tell me what happened?” Trigg looks away, fresh tears welling up. “Hey.” He guides Trigg’s chin back to look at him. “Talk to me. I love you.”

“I don’t want you to think less of me.” Ephraim opens his mouth to protest. “Eph. It’s bad. It’s really, _really_ bad.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t care,” Ephraim says earnestly.

Trigg exhales. It feels as though they’re worlds apart. “Aja sent us out on a kill detail . . .” He swallows thickly and starts shakily tracing his sigils, staring fixedly at the sheets. “Assassination. Some people the Sovereign wanted dead. It was four years ago today. The Hysperia Gardens.

“When we got there, it was . . . it was strange. I could see, hear, touch, and smell, but I couldn’t _feel_. It was like a switch had been flipped while I wasn’t paying attention and I suddenly didn’t care about anything anymore. Nothing bothered me. Orders came over the coms and I just . . . took them. No questions asked, no hesitation.”

A bad feeling crawls over the back of Ephraim’s neck. “What were the orders?”

For a long moment, Trigg doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just stares down at nothing. Then, slowly, voice low and pained, he says, “There were kids. And they were Pinks, all of them. They were unarmed and unprepared and . . . They were dead in minutes. None of them put up a fight.”

“Trigg . . .”

“I _helped_ , Eph. I did it like it was nothing. There was this—this film over my brain, keeping me from noticing how—how _evil_ it all was. It felt like it was happening to someone else.

“And then Aja . . . she didn’t want to leave any evidence. Of course she didn’t, she’s— she’s . . . I hate her, I hate Octavia, I hate Magnus, I hate . . . I hate—” He takes a breath. “I don’t know why they wanted all those people dead, but I don’t think it even matters to her, I don’t think she needed an excuse for . . . ”

The room collapses back into that thin, volatile silence. A silence that says too much and not enough. Trigg’s jaw works, sorting through a mess of emotions. Ephraim wants to reach out to him but worries it’ll break the strength Trigg’s built up to talk about this. The silence is eating him alive.

“We . . . melted them down. Hydraxic acid.” Trigg jerks forward with a sob. “Nothing left . . . not even the sigils. I just—I remember, I _remember_. I was standing there and staring as it bubbled and fizzed around the bones and I didn’t feel a _thing_.”

He cries, silent sobs racking his shoulders, hands gripping his knees. Ephraim doesn’t know what to think, what to do, how to _fix this._ He does know one thing.

“I’m here. I’m here now.” He says gently, taking Trigg’s shaking hands in his own. “You’re safe,” He says, meaning it but not knowing if it’s even true. This changes things, certainly, but nothing— _nothing_ —could keep Ephraim from loving Trigg. Even these scarred, ugly parts of him. He just has to find a way to put that into words. He rubs the back of Trigg’s hands with his thumbs, tracing the sigils. They’re cool in contrast with his skin.

“I couldn’t feel anything,” Trigg mumbles, sobs dulled to hollow wheezing. “I hated it. It was . . . it was nothing, nothing. I—I—” He cuts himself off. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Let it out,” Ephraim says. What else _can_ he say? He won’t lie and tell Trigg that “it’s okay” or “that’s in the past” because it clearly isn’t.

Internally, he curses the Grimmus family. You know what?—fuck it. He curses Gold. The whole Color. This doesn’t sound out of place for them at all. What happened then—drugs, simulation, whatever it was—sounds like a normal Tuesday for those big greedy assholes.

Trigg leans forward into Ephraim’s arms. He’s stopped crying, breathing slowed. Ephraim shifts to allow him to lie down, still massaging Trigg’s hands, pressing kisses into his palms from time to time. They no longer speak, and Ephraim gets the impression Trigg knows he will be there for Trigg, no matter what.

Ephraim wants to ask _why_. He wants to do a lot of things—a lot of reckless, impossible, bloody things, but right now he wants to ask _why_. He wants to corner Holiday and ask why the two of them stay in the Thirteenth. Especially after something like that. Neither of them seem enthusiastic about the Gold war machine and are about as Reformer as Grays get. Yet they stay in the legions. Why?

Soon Trigg exhausts himself into a heavy slumber. Ephraim stays up, staring at the wall, thinking.

* * *

Holiday’s head snaps up from her datapad. She sits at a study smushed into her tiny apartment, on a chair draped in laundry. Her eyes widen and she stares at him, dumbfounded.

“Eph, you are . . . in my apartment.”

“Picked the lock.” Ephraim leans against the wall, aware that he’s being a supreme asshole and too frustrated to care.

“Did they teach you that in Piraeus?”

“Something I picked up.” Ephraim makes a vague gesture. “Trigg told me what happened four years ago.”

Something leaves her face. She sets her datapad facedown and stands, slowly. Her shoulders set back, eyes narrowed as if gauging how difficult it would be to take him down. “Told you what, exactly?” The way she says 'exactly' sounds like more of a demand than a question.

“About the Garden. Hysepia or something.”

“Hysperia,” She says heavily. “What else?”

“What else? What _else?_ You’re asking me, what _other_ than the forced mass murder did he tell me about? Is there something else I should know?”

Her shoulders sag. Relief? “I was only making sure we were on the same page.”

“Don’t make that assumption.”

“Fine. What, then, did you break into my home to tell me?”

“I want to know why you two stay with the dragoons if they do . . . that shit? Did Aja _drug_ her entire legion? To commit a _genocide_? And after that, you just suck it up and keep going?”

“One, it wasn’t the _entire_ legion, it was four squadrons. Two, there’s no way to tell if it was Aja’s doing.” Ephraim scoffs. “And _three,_ being in the Thirteen Dracones is important to both of us.”

“Important enough to just get over something like _that?_ ” It all comes pouring out. “Trigg just told me last night and he’s a _wreck_. He says he sees those Pinks in his nightmares. This is all so messed up. He listens to you, can you tell him to resign, at least? You can keep licking boots and massacring lowColors or whatever the fuck, but let him go. I can support both of us for a bit until he gets a job.” He’s rambling now, desperate, angry. “Trigg deserves a life—so do you. You’ve done your twenty years, move on. Holiday, if I lose him, if I lose _either_ of you—”

“You won’t,” Holiday says flatly. “And do _not_ talk to me like that. We are not leaving. I’ve already told you, Trigg has probably already told you. You need to get it in your head that no amount of convincing or begging or _insults_ will change this.”

Ephraim seethes. “Why _._ You won’t tell me _why.”_

“Because we have shit to do!” Holiday explodes. “Commitments, responsibilities. The legions are messed up and dysfunctional as the Society but it’s all we have. And if you hate the legions so much, why don’t you _do_ something about it? If you lose sleep thinking about how bad the legions are, _do something_. Change it. Join the Sons of Ares if you’re such a radical.”

Ephraim snorts in derision and Holiday turns her head, expression unreadable. “I don’t care about the legions,” He says, “I care about you and Trigg.”

Holiday shakes her head slowly, “I knew it.” _What does that mean?_ She sets her shoulders, “Good talk, but you need to go now. Since you had to break in, I doubt Trigg knows you’re here so he’s probably getting worried.” She strides across the room and opens the door, glaring at him. “Don’t pick my lock again.”

* * *

Weeks and long talks and reconciliations later, Trigg sleeps soundly again. When he wakes up, he wakes up slowly. Occasionally he will have bouts of semi-lucidity where he lifts his head to check the time or hoard the blankets or paw Ephraim’s chest until he wraps his arms around him again. Ephraim—no stranger to insomnia—has been awake for a while.

It’s their last day together before Trigg leaves again. This mission is supposed to be particularly long, so Ephraim wants to savor every second of their time together. It still sort of baffles him that Trigg has stuck around so long. He wishes he had the words to tell Trigg how thankful he is for him just _being here_. What would he be doing now if not waking up next to Trigg? Nothing Ephraim wants to dwell on.

Trigg opens his eyes, blinking slowly. The way his eyelashes cast shadows over those wide, molten gray irises makes Ephraim’s breath hitch. That and the muscle moving under his lightly freckled shoulders, the white slash of scar tissue on his jaw, the smell of his skin, the calluses on his hands. Ephraim knows and loves every piece of him.

He shifts so he’s lying more comfortably on top of Ephraim, arms wrapped around him. In a sleepy voice Ephraim would level entire cities for, Trigg says, “You snore.”

“What?”

“Not in an annoying way.” He closes his eyes and rests his cheek on Ephraim’s chest, his skin rough and warm. “It’s kind of comforting.”

“The snoring.”

“Yeah.”

“Trigg?”

He opens one eye, “Yes?”

“You’re weird.”

Trigg chuckles and Ephraim feels the vibrations against his stomach. “I’m okay with that. I’m also—” He yawns— “going back to sleep.”

“Don’t you have to leave today?”

He fumbles for the alarm clock on the side table. “In . . . six hours. I have time. How long have you been up? You need sleep too.” With a contented sigh, he pulls Ephraim in for a quick kiss and settles his head on his collarbone. This is, Ephraim finds, the only way he can ever get a decent night’s sleep.

* * *

It is always there now. In the back of his mind, on the tip of his tongue. Like a mantra, like a promise. _I love you_. He’d say it all day if he weren’t worried about it losing its weight. It’s supposed to be something special—and it is! It absolutely is. But does it stay special if it’s all he says? If he were to repeat it over and over again until his tongue was sore, would it still even mean anything anymore?

Trigg sits across from him on the couch and he doesn’t even _know_. Though, maybe he does know. He’s intuitive like that. He’s also clever and patient and a fast learner. And even if he were none of those things Ephraim would still love him. There is so much new and intense emotion in him he doesn’t know what to do with it sometimes.

“I love you,” Ephraim says suddenly. He couldn’t keep it to himself any longer.

Trigg glances up from his datapad, smiling, brows furrowed. That same expression he made the last thousand times Ephraim blurted it out. His legs slide over Ephraim’s as he sets the tablet down on the coffee table. “I love you too,” He says.

The affection in Ephraim’s chest bubbles up and overflows. He fumbles, “I just—I can’t imagine where I’d be without you. Thank you . . . for this. For everything.” 

Trigg bursts into a grin. “Sap.” He crawls over Ephraim’s legs to plant a kiss on his mouth.

“It’s true—”

“That you’re sappy?”

“Sure,” Ephraim huffs. “Now shut up, I’m not done telling you how much I love you.”

Trigg laughs into Ephraim’s mouth. Ephraim tries to keep his thoughts organized, focus slipping in the wake of that smile that never ceases to send his brain into a haze. Trigg leans forward until their foreheads touch. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, you know that, right?”

Ephraim, at a loss for words and breath and—thoughts, honestly—only says, “Yeah.”

"Because I know you love me. I see it in you every single day.” His smile melts into something softer, more personal. “When I wake up and your arms are still around me, the fact that you stay patient with me when I’m out for a while, how you can read my moods better than I can . . .” He trails off and finds his way back to Ephraim’s eyes. Heat blooms in the pit of Ephraim’s stomach, his chest tightens. “I know you love me, I know it better than anything.”

Ephraim finds the breath stuck in his throat.

Trigg pulls away, sitting back on Ephraim’s lap. “ _But_ . . . that’s not to say I don’t like it when you say it out loud.”

Emotion bursts out of Ephraim in a laugh. “Good,” He says, leaning forward and taking Trigg’s face in his hands. “Because I love you.” He punctuates this with a kiss. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” He says it against Trigg’s mouth over and over and over again, each time meaning it as much as the last.

* * *

"Explain it to me again.”

“Ephraim, _please_.”

Ephraim knows he’s pushing Trigg’s buttons. He _knows_ he’s being a pain in the ass, but he can’t stop. “It doesn’t make any sense to me. What have the legions ever done for you? Why do you insist on staying with them?”

Trigg sighs, sounding like a broken record. “It’s my choice. This is what I want to do. Now, please, come to bed, you have work in the morning.” It’s late—really late. Trigg is sitting up in bed, looking exhausted, eyes tracking Ephraim, who has been wandering angrily for the past who knows how long.

“And you don’t!” Ephraim shrills. Trigg runs his hand over his face, leaning back against the headboard. “You could get a job and have a life! You wouldn’t have to hop from planet to planet on tours with barely any leave. You could sleep _here_ each night instead of in the barracks of some dusty old ship. And you wouldn’t be risking your life every time you went out on a job!”

Trigg’s head snaps up. “That’s what this is about? You’re worried about me _dying_?”

Ephraim throws his hands, pacing the length of the bedroom. “And wasting your life, and becoming fodder for the gorydamn Gold war machine, and having a horrible job as a footsoldier for the daughter of a guy who nuked a planet, and—”

“I have to do this.”

"You don’t.” He stops pacing. The anger leaves Ephraim as fast as it came. His shoulders sag. “You really don’t. _Please,_ Trigg.”

“I do.” Trigg climbs off the bed. “I don’t expect you to understand, and that’s fine. I have commitments in the Thirteenth.” _That’s what Holiday said, but what does that even mean?_ “And when that’s done we can get a house and I’ll get a ‘real job.’ ” He comes behind Ephraim and starts kneading his shoulders, nuzzling his jaw. “And we can get old together.”

Ephraim sighs. “That’s all I want. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

* * *

On the day Ephraim’s life changed forever, there was a shore of pale sand, stretching horizon to horizon. There were lazy, expansive sunsets. There were mellow waves and the distant cry of gulls. There was salty seafood and there were fancy drinks with those stupid little umbrellas. There were sleepless nights spent watching the stars from a hammock. There was an absurdly expensive guitar that Trigg _had to buy_ because of the sunrise over a glittering sea painted on the body. There were teetering rock sculptures and collections of broken shells. There were competitions to see how far rocks could be skipped when the tide was calm. There was a nightmare, followed by a long conversation. There were entire days spent lounging on a raft, drifting over the waves. There was the slow deliberation of learning an instrument. There were haphazard melodies and kisses to interrupt off-key singing.

Then there was a ring, and some crying, a frantic, obvious _yes_ and an _I’m so sorry I didn’t get you a ring, I would have but I didn’t think—_ Then there was an _Eph, seriously. It’s okay._

Now there is a small bungalow on the beach and inside it are interlaced hands, one pair wearing a slim, silver ring. Now they sit on the edge of the bed, wreathed in starlight through the open window. Trigg thumbs the ring on Ephraim’s finger. It’s still cold. “Is it . . . does it look okay?”

“It’s beautiful.” Ephraim brings his hands up to cup the sides of Trigg’s face. “And I don’t care what it looks like. I care about you, and me, and _this_ .” He gestures around them, then settles his gaze back on his fiance— _fiance_. Trigg is his _fiance_. It’s so new and strange and it feels so right, like everything is finally settling into place.

Trigg’s face warms and he leans into Ephraim’s touch. “I’m glad.” His skin is rough and darker, dusted with countless new constellations of freckles. It is quiet here, on this little patch of Agea’s coast. Quiet unlike anywhere on Luna. It’s soothing and familiar and honest in a way Hyperion isn’t. Ephraim would stay here forever if he could.

After another soothing, familiar, honest moment, Trigg says, “When we get the time, I want to take you to South Pacifica. We don’t have to stay long if you don’t want to, but it’s . . . it is important to me; it was my first home.”

“That sounds amazing,” Ephraim murmurs. It does—it really, really does, but he’d agree to anything with Trigg looking at him like that. Face lit up with ardent love. Love that has endured so much and changed so much but never faltered. He flushes under Ephraim’s staring and cracks into that grin Ephraim fell in love with all those years ago.

They fall asleep together under the stars. It is different this time, compared to all the other times they’ve slept under these stars. This time it feels like a new beginning—as if dozens of opportunities lie waiting in the morning. Ephraim would be fine without them so long as he has Trigg.

* * *

_Husband_ , though not entirely accurate to their current arrangement, is now Trigg’s favorite word. He uses it as much as conversation allows. Ephraim is introduced to the Violet ring maker as “my husband.” Trigg interjects with “my husband and I” in about every sentence when talking to another person. By the end of the day, Trigg has his own ring and likely all of Luna knows they’re engaged.

Not that Ephraim minds in the slightest. Trigg’s enthusiasm is infectious and there’s something kind of wonderful about being flaunted like that—being not only the object of Trigg’s affection, but his pride as well. Ephraim is perfectly content hanging on Trigg’s arm and being dragged along for the ride.

Trigg all but kicks open the door to Holiday’s apartment. Without letting go of Ephraim, he cups one hand around his mouth. “Holiday! Holi! Come out!” He singsongs, “There’s someone I want you to meet!”

Something thuds to the floor in the other room. Ephraim closes the front door, feeling extremely awkward barging into her home like this. Eventually, the door on the far wall opens and Holiday steps out, bewildered.

“Hi Eph.”

“Holi.”

Trigg gets between the two of them. With a sweeping flourish, he presents Ephraim to Holiday. “Meet my husband.”

Holiday only now notices the rings. Her eyes go wide. “Wow, congratulations!” She slugs Trigg’s shoulder. “See? I told you not to worry.” She says, giving Ephraim a wink.

Trigg laughs and wraps her up in a side hug. She’s bigger than him, so she ruffles his hair. If this—this sense of family, this love that comes so easy—is Ephraim’s future, he is more than ready for it. The three of them move to the couch where Trigg drapes his arm over Ephraim’s shoulder. Holiday takes the seat across from them, smirking.

“So you’re the trophy husband now?”

Trigg makes a derisive sound in the back of his throat. Ephraim shrugs and says, “Honestly? I could get used to it.”

Holiday laughs and the three of them talk all through the evening. It’s nice. It’s nice in a new, subtle way, in the fact that not once does Ephraim start to think he doesn’t deserve this. This is his life now. _This is his life now_. The thought makes him giddy.

* * *

It’s one of those rare good days. The kind of day where who cares what the weather is like or how the war is faring? The kind of day that just breezes past. Ephraim doesn’t even notice he’s at the end of his shift until he’s outside in the cool evening air. A normal day of investigating endless claims and pushing pencils would have dragged past—but today is not a normal day.

Today is the day the Legio XIII Dracones touch down on Luna for a break. Today is the day _Trigg gets back_. Ephraim’s been counting down to this day for, what? Three weeks? A month now? He didn’t even need to check the calendar this morning, the date’s been stuck in his head for what feels like an eternity. This late in the day Trigg should be home by now.

The anticipation makes the commute almost impossible. But then it’s over, and he’s taking the stairs to his apartment two—three at a time. When Ephraim slides the key in the reader and stumbles inside, Trigg’s boots are by the door and there’s a worn Thirteenth duffle bag on the couch.

He finds Trigg in their bedroom, lying on his back, half-asleep. His eyes open just barely when Ephraim enters, and a lazy smile takes over his face. With one hand—the hand wearing his engagement ring—he beckons Ephraim over.

Ephraim kicks off his shoes and crawls onto his side of the bed. He leans down to kiss Trigg briefly on the lips. He smells of shampoo, with that underlying bonfire stench that always clings to him after a mission. Trigg rubs the side of Ephraim’s jaw with his thumb.

“Welcome back,” Ephraim says. Trigg just chuckles and gently pulls Ephraim down by his shirt collar for another kiss. Warmth blooms in Ephraim’s core as he sinks into it.

Trigg pulls away gently, eyes still half-lidded. He’s exhausted, as he usually is after a mission, but he’s content. Realization opens up his features in seconds. His head falls back and he sighs.

“What?”

“I have to leave again soon.”

Ephraim tries to mask his disappointment. “Oh.”

“It’s a high-profile job on Mars, that’s all I’m allowed to say for now, but it’ll be . . . long.” He grimaces. “I’m sorry. But when I get back I’ll have a lot of off-time—maybe.”

Ephraim leans back, enthusiasm dashed. “Right, when you get back . . .” Which could be any time. It could be months from now—years, even, given the mission is on _Mars_. And if it’s on Mars, it’s probably got something to do with the Sons of Ares. The Society has been trying to stomp them out for years now with no luck.

"Wait,” Trigg leans over and grabs a squarish box off the side table. He hands it to Ephraim. “I got you something to make up for it.”

Trigg watches Ephraim crack open the palm-sized box. On the little pedestal inside is a shining chrome watch. On the face is a little silver logo marking it as a Valenti. The poor hinges, too-thin hands, and scuffed clasp mark it as a knockoff. Not that it matters—not with Trigg watching him with so much leashed excitement, gauging Ephraim’s reaction.

“Thank you,” Ephraim says, then laughs. “Shit, now I feel bad for not getting you anything.”

“I don’t need anything, I have everything I need right here.”

Ephraim snorts, crossing his arms. “And you call me sappy?” He glances down at the watch again, wondering how much it cost. He can’t help but feel a pang of guilt. “I don’t deserve this,” he thinks, and then bites his tongue, realizing he said it aloud.

Trigg frowns and sits up on his elbows. “Don’t say that. I mean it, _don’t_. You do deserve this, and more,” he says softly, “you are more than worthy. I’ll remind you every day if I have to.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Trigg laughs, not unkindly. “Because I love you, and you are everything to me.”

Ephraim can’t argue with that.

* * *

The day Trigg has to leave, things are tense. Not because of anything specific, but Trigg’s demeanor has changed. It’s as if overnight, some grand revelation dawned on him and he sees the world differently now. He stares off into middle distance a lot, zoning out and sometimes Ephraim catches Trigg staring at him a few seconds too long, with something like sadness on his face.

Then it’s time for him to go, and that strange feeling persists.

“I’ll be back,” Trigg says, hand on the doorframe like he’s trying to keep himself from leaving. “I don’t know when, but I’ll be back, and then we can . . .” He trails off, fighting some inner turmoil, dropping his hand from the door. “Just . . . I’ll be back.”

“I love you,” Ephraim says, as if it’ll fix whatever created this awkwardness. He reaches forward and takes Trigg’s hand. “Be safe.”

Trigg chuckles derisively to himself.

Ephraim should have known something was wrong.


End file.
